[x]

Wolf and LambBeckon the full moon,
Call out to spirits of past,
Where the white wolf sings…

The harvest moon breaks through the trees,
To a land protected by night seekers.
The silence broken by harmonious melodies,
Sung by the wolves- the midnight keepers.

The full moon breaks the night,
Ravens of mourning taking to flight.
Wolves howl to their lost,
Through the wind and the frost,
Where the world awaits twilight.

Midnight moon above,
Take away hunger of wolf,
Lest he betray sheep…

Violent storm across the sea,
Siren song which holds my fate,
Draws the end of the voyage to me,
To the shores for my greed and hate,
Where I shal

In my bathroom againGod's in my bathroom again,

he's shaving the patches of his
beard and pulling clown-faces
at the soap. Last night

he held me as I lay in a fever,
made little screams, kept
the hot tongues from my face,
the mushrooms from my
spine.

He says his old girlfriend
tried to drink his blood, that
it messed him up
for a while. He says
it's been a long time.

God looks sad, jingling his
teeth at me like loose
change. The clicks of my
heart make me sick;
folding his pyjamas

would be
the kind thing
to do.

virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.
i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,
fifteen and beer-loose
tied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lips
and i wrote a story about disaster,
a quiet two sleds long.
a box full of beads, i swallowed
fifteen needles, mommy. don’t
tell me i’m not sorry.
don’t call me a whore you bag of bones
you lock-loose suitcase do you even
recognize me look at my face my toothache skin
i am not the one with the knife.

my mother never slept with a boy
who didn’t love her never let a boy
sleep on her while she lay awake beneath
the shroud of his skin breathing only
when her voice-box gathere

astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.

we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.

do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?

that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;

stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.

i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers – creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.

Moonbeam MayhemMidnight on bare skin--
a subtle kiss of stardust
on a lonesome heart.

happy birthdaydishwater the color of dawn
detergent is grayed by three plates
and two mugs. your hands are pruned,
the same soap opalescent against
white ceramic and pale skin.

i dry what you pass to me,
then take your wrists to mop away
the suds that bed beneath your nails,
the color of grayed dawn.

"at least we didn't have spaghetti,"
you say while i spread your fingers,
admiring your dull calluses and
knuckles, thick. "at least you're drying,
i said you didn't have to."

"it's your birthday,"
and i admire the thin hair at your temple,
faintly grayed.

and zero is the biggestraspberry thorns piercing through membranes
of adroit ballerinas with pointe shoes,
bones smashed against the wood;
they are mangled bodies of birds with suitcases tucked in their wings
phrases spilling from their lips:
(i might lose important papers)
scattered along with liquefied brains on the floor.

he was so afraid, that his immune system was having a seizure,
(its brain was falling apart [birds, birds, birds])
and they opened up the zeroth dimension
(you're the biggest zero out there)
infinity upon infinity, negatives, and ten.

among the scattered papers, she will dance with you again

sick hydrangea and my bonesi bare my bones to the screeching moon.
twenty-nine days, and i claw again.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

ribcage and spine: shadows soften too soon.
light, light, as i crawl through the glen.
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.

i gouge myself open to find the rune,
hacking, peeling, like do all wise men.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

pooling skin-folds, i want them scattered, strewn.
this skin's all bark and oozing holes when
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.

bubble, swell; i can hear the snakes croon.
beauty of being lies beneath the vein.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

crazed lust for hu

Sticky FingersShamrock-painted nails
scrape the bottom of the barrel,
mint chocolate chip ice cream
dripping from sticky fingers
like the final notes
of a tragic romance.
Lying heavy on her tongue:
the bitter aftertaste
of a lesson learned too late.
Rubbing salt across the open wound,
she bites down on her spoon
and wishes for relief,
but she's always had a jealous bone
and she knows him well enough by now
to know that when his sister calls,
he doesn't turn the bedroom lights off
and lock the door.

The MartyrIs that you
My skin and bone stalker?
Oh, how your flesh is in want
Of a beautiful martyrdom
And our silence rectifies this.
Peeling back the ply layers
In satin-shimmering sheets
Reveals a blinding bandage wrap
And the nails in your mouth
(Sucking out the iron to fortify
The caustic, slipshod nerve
Needed to be the sacrifice)
We will use to pillow
And prop you up
Under that lineal briar crown

seekerI wander much through such old country,
a ghost who's thinking of other ghosts,
missing them and their effects,
an exile from the present, and from past.

The Daily Sentence ProjectShe shifts her thighs to the same angles
where tectonic plates exchange glances.
The infant in her arms coos in haiku,
the phone crouching on her shoulder
barking in blank verse and bank terms;

where has the affection been displaced?

Perhaps the both of them are three full-
time jobs past romance and two cases
of chickenpox past the seven-year-itch

to be able to tell that dishwater softens
and oatmeal baths becalm their hands.

The kitchen tile is a haphazardous haven
for cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.

I took offMy day off.
I stand in sunlight
without asking.
I can watch it being day.

The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.

I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
Red bell
peppers;
too late for lettuce.

I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.

Lost in the Marketplace of an Alien WorldThey're all ears and nose,
pouring the colours of their feet
around me.

I can't count their stars
or verbs until

suddenly my mother's hand
pulls me back
into my own solar system

and my heart is falling in love with oxygen.

maybe.if we fell in love with our eyes closed

maybe i could be what you wanted

i always knew there was a hint of a cannibal in you, dear -

sparkling eyes hungry for bones

collar-hip-neck-ribs

if you were blind as love

would you love me?

i could be more than words on paper

more than just this decaying body

if all you saw was emptiness

could i fill the void?

i could offer you my world of swirling words and stardust

i'd whisper prose along your skin

and kiss poems into your lips

and maybe you'd find me along the way

but you've got 20/20 vision

hawk-eyes piercing your talons into my heart

so close your eyes and count to 10-

think of h

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When Intending Permanence

by ~Cionie, Sep 26, 2012, 4:32:58 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Haiku & Eastern

When one intends "permanence",
one must write it with
a well-crafted ampersand.

When Intending Permanenceby ~Cionie

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Haiku & Eastern

An ode to &.
Hope you enjoy!

Image is my own. It's an ampersand in Garamond Italic

01/13/13

~winterkate Jan 18, 2013 Student Writer

Hahaha nice this was very keen.

Reply

*Parsat Jan 12, 2013 Student Writer

Couldn't even recognize that picture as an ampersand! I fail.

Reply

~Cionie Jan 14, 2013 Professional Interface Designer

Lol, it's because you were so blinded by it's brilliance and beauty

Reply

=DailyLitDeviations Jan 12, 2013

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

Reply

~Cionie Jan 14, 2013 Professional Interface Designer

Thank you! Wow, that's a great honor

Reply

~QuixoticApricot Oct 13, 2012 Writer

I love you almost as much as you love fonts.

Reply

~Cionie Oct 15, 2012 Professional Interface Designer

And that's a lot!

Lol, thanks Kaye, I love you more than I love fonts

Reply

~tisserande-d-encre Sep 28, 2012 Student Writer

You do have a thing for font types lately, don't you?

I like this one pretty much

Reply

~Cionie Oct 1, 2012 Professional Interface Designer

Haha, yeah

I'm reading a book called "Just My Type" and it's a history of famous typefaces. Some people really like movies, micro brews or football; I enjoy looking at type

Reply

~tisserande-d-encre Oct 1, 2012 Student Writer

Aww... that's cool

Which is your favourite font type, if you have any? Just curious

Reply

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